Because I Could Not Stop for Death
by pratz
Summary: Fujiwara and Miura, confused and trapped in a tangled web.


**Because I Could Not Stop for Death **

Author: pratz

Disclaimer: _Dear Boys II_ and its characters belong to Yagami Hiroki. I merely borrow them.

Notes: written for arisuesei and sasuke in LiveJournal.

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_2-0: Miura_

He is sprawled on the floor, sprawled with Fujiwara beside him, watching him, waiting for him to say anything because Fujiwara just knows he will.

And he just goes on and asks what makes him Miura and Enomoto Enomoto, knowing that Fujiwara will be blunt and give him the answer he isn't so sure he'll be happy to listen to.

He listens to Fujiwara, word by word, memorizes them and makes a note to himself he will not let them go to waste.

_Surprise me_, Fujiwara says, and that's all.

It all drains down to that, so straightforward he cannot help but aching inside.

Still, it doesn't explain how he finds his lips land on the corner of Fujiwara's lips. His eyes meet Fujiwara's, and there's a beginning of a smile on the tight line of Fujiwara's mouth.

He doesn't remember much about Fujiwara's broad palm on his shoulder, poignant, caring, knowing. Fujiwara's warm hand slips under his shirt, popping the buttons of his school uniform from their holes one by one, mapping his skin, touching, caressing, sliding up and down, everywhere, anywhere on his suddenly tight, churning stomach. All he remembers are warm breath next to his ear, his name whispered smoothly, tendrils of Fujiwara's hair tickling his temple, the tip of Fujiwara's nose nuzzling his cheek, Fujiwara's scent, Fujiwara's presence, _Fujiwara_.

"And I know you will," his captain says at last. "You will."

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_2-3: Fujiwara_

_Don't play in the match against Yokohama._

He almost wants to scowl. He is the captain, damn it. It's he they shall listen to and not the other way around.

_Don't play._

Both corners of his mouth are pulled down into a tight, tense line. Aikawa has already sensed there's a beginning of a frown between his brows. They call him cold, hurt by Shimojou's betrayal, cynical and constantly angry. So what? Why can't he be just like that for now?

_Please_.

Then there's a hand on his wrist, lean fingers, fine-boned, orange ball-roughened, calloused from multiple practices and efforts, gripping not so hard so he's still able to yank his hand away but gentle enough to know that _he_ is there.

_We will bring you to the Interhigh_.

He trusts them, of course. And it's unquestionable how he trusts Miura.

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_2-6: Miura_

"We're here at last."

Proud, strong, brave.

"And I'm still holding your promise to keep me company to the top."

Of course. He will not forget. This is the man he has promised to follow unto whatever end. Fujiwara's hand beneath his radiates confidence, comfort and reassurance. His captain curls his fingers a little, the tip of neatly clipped nails grazing his palm, making him want, really want to curl his fingers in return, slip them between Fujiwara's and just hold onto him.

Yokohama's notable delayed offense doesn't look so superior anymore.

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_5-6: Miura_

His ankle feels like hell, burning, that raw ache twisting itself deeper and deeper, more intense, more painful, damn it, damn it all.

His teammates need him. Mizuho needs him. He can't stop now.

_I need you._

So he grits his teeth and swallows the pain.

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_7-6: Fujiwara_

He watches him brush his teeth, apply gel to his hair and style it the way it usually appears, Fujiwara Takumi's illustrious hairdo that not even comic Touya is able to imitate. Then the morning ritual is all done. Fujiwara next wears his arm band, ties his shoes and stands. The door opens with soft noise. Alright. Everything's perfect. Fujiwara's perfect.

As his captain turns around to his name being called, he stands on his tiptoes and uses the leverage to pull Fujiwara down a little and bestow a fleeting kiss on Fujiwara's chin. Gods, can't his captain be just a little shorter, please oh please? Or, better, can't he himself be a little taller? Oh whatever. Just blame it all on the height.

Fujiwara's brows rise as he withdraws. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"A good luck charm."

It's a lie that won't hurt anyone, not even him. What blooms in his chests isn't pain though it makes him want to hurl the chair or the bed or the low table at anyone, burn this hotel room and storm out to bitchslap Fuse and his Shounan gang just to make sure that Mizuho will win. It isn't pain, it isn't.

Fujiwara lifts his face to look at him with a finger under his chin. "Don't think. Just watch the game. Mizuho will win." Then he adds, quiet, serious, confident, "For you."

His smile is all he can give as an answer.

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_9-6: Fujiwara_

Fuse is way too stubborn to just surrender quietly, and the boiling temperature doesn't help at all. This game is one of a hell.

Then there are wet towels on their shoulders, a friend's hand behind them, apologizing for what that friend's mouth can't say and in the same time assuring them that Mizuho will win because they promise him they will, don't they?

His fingertips linger for a brief moment on Fujiwara's nape and then let go.

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_12-6: Fujiwara_

Ishii says that the difference between Mizuho and Kadena Nishi lies in him. Mizuho has a three-point shooter, him; Kadena Nishi does not. Therefore, Mizuho wins and Kadena Nishi loses.

It is that simple. Everything with Ishii is simple, bold, supportive and good-humoured. On the other hand, everything about Fujiwara is a matter of calculation, done quietly with exact precision, dosed with good amount of aloofness born from old pain and long-suffering. However, Ishii and Fujiwara both get along together despite their contrasting characteristics, and there is the same admiration in Ishii's eyes just like in his.

A clear-cut is the simplest answer to everything, but it is Fujiwara of the enigmatic confidence and bitter coldness that Miura chooses.

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_14-6: Miura_

Humans are curious creatures. They crave for explanations for everything, because explanations are enough a proof that reasons exist.

That's why he wants an explanation of Fujiwara's hands slip under the waistband of his training pants and under his briefs, seeking, touching, caressing, gods, pressing, enclosing, gods, gods, there, not there, there, _there_, the familiar, telltale warmth like coiled wires, gods!

"Quiet," his captain whispers on his ear, Fujiwara of the warm breath, musky smell of aftershave, dark, dark hair, smooth skin.

Explanations more often than not leave him incoherent, but he still craves for it because he doesn't understand why he wants, he wants, he waaants.

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_14-9: Fujiwara_

"How's he?"

"Sleeping."

"Taku?"

"Yeah?"

"...You take care of him." There's a hint of a question at the end of said sentence, hanging, hesitant, awkward but above all concerned.

Breathe, breathe. Coin inserted. A can of tea drops. A hand reaches for it. Open it. Drink. Breathe, deep, slow, breathe. Ishii doesn't need to know. "Yeah."

"Ah, good. Then tomorrow I'll play for his part, too."

Breathe, breathe. Breathing is good for health, a perfect start for anger management. "If so, I'll pass the ball to you over and over even if you're so exhausted you feel like passing out."

Miura _is_ his, and he's not jealous, damn it.

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_14-12: Fujiwara_

Close the door, lock it and walk to the bed. Sit quietly beside him, half-asleep with a dog-eared book on his stomach and a bandaged ankle and nudge him awake. Be gentle, be gentle, be gentle. And don't forget to breathe.

"Everything's alright?" asks a slurred voice, heavy from sleepiness.

"Yeah." Don't tell him, don't tell him. Just don't.

"Fuji," he shifts, supporting his head with a hand, smiling, quirking an eyebrow, "you're a bad actor, you know that."

"Yeah."

"So tell me."

"It's nothing." He chooses to close the subject. Maybe he'll talk about it in the morning if he feels like talking. Or maybe not. Or maybe he really will, if Miura does something and makes him spill it all out. Yeah. Miura always has a trick beneath his sleeves—not that others know, of course, because it's his privilege to know. His and his alone.

"Really?"

Nod, you fool.

"Alright then."

Change the ice pack on his ankle, change the bandage. Do it carefully. Pull the blanket higher; you don't want him to catch cold, don't you. Of course. He's important to you, isn't he? Of course. Then don't let him get hurt. You can do that, can't you? Even though you're such a greedy, selfish, possessive robot, you can, can't you? Of course.

"Stay?"

Don't get angry at his tentative tone. It's not that he doesn't trust you enough to have you say yes; it's just that he isn't sure that this is what you want, that _he_ is who you want. Slip under the blanket with him, wind an arm around his torso, sleep. He's here, with you, not with anyone else, not even Ishii. Just breathe him in and sleep. Ignore everything else.

God blesses the silence.

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_14-14: Fujiwara_

It has come to this. It's time to kick some ass. It's time to have a payback for their previous lose. It's time to play for a player who can't play despite his desperate wanting.

It's time to win for Miura's sake, just as he, the captain, a friend and maybe more, promises.

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End file.
